Puppy in the Light
He was a compass for the light of restricted rooms, long days spent in pursuit of the sun; a tracking of natural light through the same off-limits properties he’d been bred to protect. The dog had a gift for opening doors, a nose for it. He didn’t need fingers to twist open handles. And she tried locking them, erecting barriers and gates. She used sharp tones and angry postures—then whooped him, had even bitten one of his ears, per internet guidance. Yet there seemed no home he could not breach. In fact, he required nothing but the sunlight of these rooms, and rest. He was an animal possessed solely by sated natures. Lacking any real discipline, overindulgent, too cute, too willing to let things fall by the wayside. And, worst of all, keen on getting over; further stretching the limits of his long leash—or like no leash whatsoever—taking up whatever space he so chose.
Too smart for his own good. Mother would take one look at this black dog—on thin ice already. Bad boy, she’d go, forbidden room. Dogs strictly not allowed. And especially ghetto dogs such as yourself.
Clever as he was, there were still things he did not know. For example, that his ass was grass. And that time was ticking. None of this would last. They were coming back, owners and renters, the world was opening up. A deluge of vacationers, discharged of whatever service economy desperate to have them, would trickle in out of performed isolation, reclaiming the spaces which he called his own. Expectant, impatient, intolerant. Everything back to the way it used to be. Then what of his rebellion, his thumbless breeching of doors? Shut doors that led to sun-drenched rooms. Once found, they’d toss his ass in the slammer, replace them both with some real killers, real cops.
It was a lesson her mother had been sure to impart. She always said it be your own people, too. The ones who take you most for granted. The ones who should know better than to test your limits, and who also could not afford to live a life of dog. She thought he had developed some bad habits in quarantine. He wasn’t ready to go back to work.
It was so quiet and peaceful without them this time of year. The sun seemed to move at a slower pace. It grazed rooms now all the way until nine. And, cruising down the loamy grove, into a valley of sugar pine and white oak, the speckled light seemed to suffuse the colony of destination houses with the fabric of the manicured wilderness. Sheer luxury space, vacant for now, needing filled—nomad country, her boss had said, hiring her. No one really lives lives here.
She’d come down from the guard box today to find him. A certain lesson in mind. For his own good, she said. Find him and flash him the Kimber like—know I keeps one in the chamber. First she would do a sweep of his favorite homes. He was clearly among the content of sunny rooms. She’d be thorough, no corner left unturned. She would raise her flashlight on every shadow. She would swallow all his light. His eyes would bulge with calculated horror, those sad, mysterious brown eyes measuring what risks lay ahead. She was going to then make him stand at attention. Make a show of it. Tinking the dangled teeth of the choker like windchimes. Saying, Yes, dog. Saying, You know what time it is. His latest punishment was to be a choker chain made especially for bigger dogs. It was a ring of thick, complicated chain-links fused to a set of crooked stingers about two inches long. Chrome-plated alloy. Teeth dulled by rubber tips. It was a lesson in the limits of dog-life she’d been too chicken to give. The more he struggled against it, he’d learn, the tighter that chain would squeeze. Limits were how you got along in this world. How you survived. Then she slipped the chain in a jacket pocket, and that’s when she went looking.
She parked and made her way down the line of homes with west-facing windows. Numbers five through eight. She drove to the entrances of each property, crept to front doors, pulled on door handles, checked Ring cameras. Their fenestrated faces in the swelling vegetation made her feel she was being watched. She’d stepped inside and look around, serving light to the gaping mouths of corridors and rooms. No one there.
One house was clustered on the back of a million year old boulder like barnacles to the lips of gray whales. One sat open as a glass cabinet, and from her view in the driveway, invisible, just a trace; a home implied by surrounding green. One stood up, a concrete pillar in the hunter-green of muggy late summer. One was the color of limes, slender and ribbed as a cargo can. One had a sunroom with grass carpeting. The room long neglected. The faded grass now coarse as animal fur.
She was going to teach him a lesson he won’t soon forget, and once and for all, and that was for his own damn good. That put him in his place, and kept him out of other people’s homes. But if he managed to hide well enough, keep quiet, she might just let him be. For now. It was maybe too much trouble anyway. Windows and mirrors. She let her reflection pass the blue scrim of vinyl windows and tall mirrors. Her knees hurt. It was late. The sun-dipped avenues and clearings dimmed. She almost wished never to find him. She wished never to go beyond this day. It was beautiful and quiet out. No denying, she was tired.
This one, deep in her arsenal of mom-speak: the key to tired was the beating back of tired via sheer will of exertion. An object in motion, she’d say, IE tired does not exist. Well, not really. Well, it can’t. Not for us. And would you look at this? The door to number seven split just so from the frame. Yet no signs of forced entry. Looks like a pro on our hands. She slowly palmed open the door, gripping the butt of her weapon. Inside, all was still, draped in heavy shadow, undisturbed. Regular B&E, looks like, and from a repeat offender. His muddy pads left a trail upstairs, dogprints tracking across the blond runner, leading all the way up there. She crossed the foyer and followed.
Careful now. So not to disturb. So to catch dog in act. The door to the west-facing study was split as well, and a bright blade shone in the obtuse seam. A novice might think nothing of it. But this dog had skills, and must have bypassed the high barricade, slinking his body like putty. Apparently you need not fingers to open doors or part blinds. He had even gone so far as to nudge the door back behind him, thus delaying his discovery.
She tiptoed over the slipshod barricade erected to block his entry. The room was abundant with sunlight and dog-smell, and a certain someone was under the huge bay windows. There he lay, our assailant, asleep on his side in a perfect bed of light, done begging permission. His coat struck hot as foil, burning purple impressions in her eyes.
Puppy in the light, looking so comfy, collapsed before the hot windows of yet another room unallowed. Just cooking. And not apologetic at all.The picture of ease, and total disregard for whatever rules restricted access to such stillness and light. She tried to remove the choker from her pocket. Links of aluminum tumbled out, accumulating in hand. She stepped to dog and stamped. He made no move. She shook the chain. In sleep he pursed his lips and loosed a small, self-pleasing sigh.
That light looking so good, the piling so soft. Child had nothing for him but the light. No apparent skills. No one in corner. Not a savage bone in body. He’d been born crooked, and bought cheap. Here, he was a slanted body in framing light, almost winged—and who was she to beat on angels? She knelt to smooth the fine grain of his scalp. Hello, lazy dog, where’s your water? The word almost brought him back, eyes rolling in a veil of his haw. Then the room went dark, swept through by clouds, and his arrowhead of light disappeared. Finally, he opened his eyes to her in full, as if she was to blame for the taking of his light.
I know, says dog. I know.
But we must be going. They’ll be here any minute.
He could only fill his lungs, sighing with the weight of the world. What’s the rush? This seemed to say, What’s the worst they can do? As the sun spilled inside back inside an even brighter pool of light rose from the bone-white carpet. It seemed to turn a corner, drowning the room, a new bed of light slowly unfurling, reaching up her shins. The entire room was warm and smelly, and dense with the pull of sunshine. Dog’s light. He was bright as a lightbulb, a body of light. He scootched over a little, making room for her. Her knees popped as she bent to her haunches. She slid out beside dog and dug in her nails behind one of his ears, then into his birdcage chest. There were combinations only she knew. Close kept, secret touches. He hooked her wrist in further guidance and thanks. Just under the chin now with the free edge of her pointer. Again he shut his eyes and sighed.
Not like her to lay. Even an inkling of lay. But she let go, dashing the choker across the floor. She expelled the air from her lungs. Grainy stars tickled the edges of her vision, squirming off like silverfish. The sun came into her face. She shut her eyes to the gravity of arresting light. Suddenly leaden. The losing battle to maintain any vision at all. Yep, no denying. She was a total goner. Foe show. In fact, what if she never got back up again? What if by the time someone came she had waterlogged the ceiling below?
Man you said it, says dog, heavy chuff.
Oh what do you know about tired, dog? What do you know beside sleep and eat and piss in rooms unallowed?
What would he ever do without her? Spoiled boy. Not a care in the world. He rubbed the side of his face with a dew claw and beat his tail, moaning. When has woman ever known such peace than to let lie around in daylight, do nothing all day, guilt free, without looking like a complete and total waste? She shifted to face him, still fighting. She did not at the moment have what it takes to get back up again. She maybe had an hour, maybe had a day. The room was to be dealt with when ready—or not. As was dog. As was this epic form of surrender—this failure to keep on keeping on in the face of so many who had no choice—who had warrants out and dependent babies and second mortgages—never allowed even an inch of peace and quiet.
Here's to them, says dog, passing smooth gas. Now sailing nail down bridge of nose. Most special spot for dog. He nudged closer and cooed. The sky swept, wall to ceiling, shoot-cast, thralling. What a life. Rule-less life, dog-life. Imagine it. Days spent fixed to perfect dog-sized diamonds of light, nothing on mind, hurting nobody. If only she wasn’t a tad bit jelly. Just a smidge. Having to work. Having to worry. While dog is in tree pose, knocked out, or perched like the Sphinx somewhere in light. While dog is in pigeon pose, dog is in plank. Dog is overheated by a lifestyle mostly of sunning and treats, his paper-thin tongue damp and bleating. Her eyelids were shut, and still the light seeped in. Orange-marbled conduits of day. Now charting its path through the body. Common everyday light, revitalizing. Vitamin C, Vitamin D. Mama, please lend me the strength!
But she would only cross her arms, a little peeved, a little hurt, wasn’t she more than this? She’d be like, my dear child, what have you made of me? Oh puppy. Look at us talking to ghosts.